The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(61)

He moved so that he might stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder. When he spoke, he knew that his words would land on her skin like a kiss. "It's quite provocative, isn't it?"

Still, Grace seemed not to know what to say. Jack did not mind. He had discovered that watching Grace looking at the painting was far more erotic than the painting itself had ever been.

"I always wanted to go see it in person," he commented. "I believe it is in Germany now. Munich, perhaps. But alas, my travels never took me that way."

"I've never seen anything like it," Grace whispered.

"It does make one feel, does it not?"

She nodded.

And he wondered - if he had always dreamed of lying between Mademoiselle O'Murphy's thighs, did Grace now wonder what it was like to be her? Did she imagine herself lying on the divan, exposed to a man's erotic gaze?

To his gaze.

He would never allow anyone else to see her thus.

Around them, the room was silent. He could hear his own breath, each one more shaky than the last.

And he could hear hers - soft, low, and coming faster with each inhalation.

He wanted her. Desperately. He wanted Grace. He wanted her spread before him like the girl in the painting. He wanted her any way he could have her. He wanted to peel the clothes from her body, and he wanted to worship every inch of her skin.

He could practically feel it, the soft weight of her thighs in his hands as he opened her to him, the musky heat as he moved closer for a kiss.

"Grace," he whispered.

She was not looking at him. Her eyes were still on the painting in the book. Her tongue darted out, moistening the very center of her lips.

She couldn't have known what that did to him.

He reached around her, touching her fingers. She did not pull away.

"Dance with me," he murmured, wrapping his hand around her wrist. He tugged at her gently, urging her to her feet.

"There is no music," she whispered. But she stood. With no resistance, not even a hint of hesitation, she stood.

And so he said the one thing that was in his heart.

"We will make it ourselves."

There were so many moments when Grace could have said no. When his hand touched hers. When he pulled her to her feet.

When he'd asked her to dance, despite the lack of music - that would have been a logical moment.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

She should have. But she didn't want to.

And then somehow she was in his arms, and they were waltzing, in time with the soft hum of his voice. It was not an embrace that would ever be allowed in a proper ballroom; he was holding her far too close, and with each step he seemed to draw her closer, until finally the distance between them was measured not in inches but in heat.

"Grace," he said, her name a hoarse, needy moan. But she did not hear the last bit of it, that last consonant. He was kissing her by then, all sound lost in his onslaught.

And she was kissing him back. Good heavens, she did not think she had ever wanted anything so much as she did this man, in this moment. She wanted him to surround her, to engulf her. She wanted to lose herself in him, to lay her body down and offer herself up to him.

Anything, she wanted to whisper. Anything you want.

Because surely he knew what she needed.

The painting of that woman - the French king's mistress - it had done something to her. She'd been bewitched. There could be no other explanation. She wanted to lie naked on a divan. She wanted to know the sensation of damask rubbing against her belly, while cool, fresh air whispered across her back.

She wanted to know what it felt like to lie that way, with a man's eyes burning hotly over her form.

His eyes. Only his.

"Jack," she whispered, practically throwing herself against him. She needed to feel him, the pressure of him, the strength. She did not want his touch only on her lips; she wanted it everywhere, and everywhere at once.

For a moment he faltered, as if surprised by her sudden enthusiasm, but he quickly recovered, and within seconds he had kicked the door shut and had her pinned up against the wall beside it, never once breaking their kiss.

She was on her toes, pressed so tightly between Jack and the wall that her feet would have dangled in the air if she'd been just an inch higher. His mouth was hungry, and she was breathless, and when he moved down to worship her cheek, and then her throat, it was all she could do to keep her head upright. As it was, her neck was stretching, and she could feel herself arching forward, her breasts aching for closer contact.

This was not their first intimacy, but it was not the same. Before, she'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd wanted to be kissed.

But now...It was as if every pent-up dream and desire had awoken within her, turning her into some strange fiery creature. She felt aggressive. Strong. And she was so damned tired of watching life happen around her.

"Jack...Jack..." She could not seem to say anything else, not when his teeth were tugging at the bodice of her frock. His fingers were aiding in the endeavor, nimbly unfastening the buttons at her back.

But somehow that wasn't fair. She wanted to be a part of it, too. "Me," she managed to get out, and she moved her hands, which had been reveling in the crisp silkiness of his hair, to his shirtfront. She slid down the wall, pulling him along with her, until they were both on the floor. Without missing a beat, she made frenetic work of his buttons, yanking his shirt aside once she was through.